Ice Hunt

Dr. Reynolds passed her the steel crampons.

Jenny quickly snugged them to her boots. The spiked tips and soles would allow her to scale the shaft. The ice ax was both to aid in this and to protect her.

Once she was outfitted, Tom passed her two of the remaining Molotovs. “I dropped the rope right near the entrance when we were…were attacked. If you anchor it to the grate above, it should just about reach down here.”

Jenny nodded, shoving the firebombs in the pocket of her parka. “No problem. Keep a watch on Bane. The grendels have him wired. Don’t let him run off.”

“I’ll make sure he stays, and I’ll follow behind him up the shaft.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

Kowalski bent a knee and offered a hand to help her up. She climbed him like a ladder, ducking into the shaft and pulling up her feet to kick in with her crampons. They dug deep, the sharp points well maintained.

“Be careful,” Kowalski said.

She had no voice to reassure him or herself. She set off up the shaft, practicing what her father had taught her long ago while glacier hiking and climbing: Keep two points of contact at all times.

With both feet spiked in place, she reached up with the ice ax and jammed it tight. Once it was secure, she moved one leg up, kicked in, then brought the other up.

It was slow going. Slow is safe, her father’s old words whispered in her ear.

Working up the shaft, one step at a time, she allowed a small measure of relief to buoy her at the thought of her father. At least he’s safe. Commander Sewell promised to look after him, and now the Delta units have arrived.

All she had to do was reach them.

But what about Matt?

Her left foot slipped out of its plant, gouging ice. She smacked to her belly on the ice. All her weight was carried on the ice ax until she was able to resecure her feet. Once planted, she still took a moment to suck in large gulps of cold air.

Two points of contact—at all times.

She shoved aside her fears for Matt. It did her no good. She had to focus, to survive. After that, she could worry. This thought raised an unbidden smile. Matt had once said she could worry a hole through plate steel.

Wishing for a tenth of Matt’s composure now, she planted her ax farther up the ventilation shaft and continued onward. Ahead the bend in the shaft appeared. Almost to the top. She rounded the corner and spotted the glare of daylight at the end of the shaft. It was open, clear.

With her goal in sight, she hurried upward—but not so fast as to be careless. The two men in her life whispered in her ears.

Slow is safe.

Don’t worry.

And lastly, words reached out of her past, from a place deep and locked away. She remembered soft lips brushing her neck, warm breath on her nape, words husky with ardor: I love you…I love you so much, Jen.

She held these words to her heart and spoke aloud, remembering what had been forgotten and knowing it to be true. “I love you, too, Matt.”

4:50 P.M.

Disguised in the Russian parka, Matt pushed out the galley doors and entered the main station. Though the level remained darkened, he kept one arm raised, shielding his face, holding the furred edge of his white hood low over his brow. He carried the AK-47 on one shoulder.

Men continued to bustle, oblivious to his appearance. He kept to the level’s outer edge, crossing along the periphery, staying in the dark. Most of the commotion was in the room’s center, where soldiers gathered, staring down the spiral steps. From below, smoke billowed up from the explosion of the booby-trapped armory.

A pair of men hauled a heavy form stretched in black plastic wrap.

Body bag.

Another pair of soldiers, laden as grimly as the first, followed. Comrades watched the procession with angered expressions. Shouts continued to echo up from below. Men spoke heatedly all around. Flashlights circled and patrolled.

A beam passed across his form. Matt kept his head turned away. As he maneuvered around the area’s tables, he bumped a chair, knocking it over. As it clattered, he hurried on. Someone yelled at him. It sounded like a curse.

He simply gestured vaguely and continued along the room’s edge. He finally reached a vantage point where he could see into the hall that led out to the storm. He spotted the wreckage of the Sno-Cat still partially blocking the way, but it had been shoved aside enough to allow a narrow space to pass to the surface. Two men stood by the Cat, but he could see movement behind the crashed vehicle.

From the corner of his eye, he continued to stare into the distance. That was his mission: recon the level and determine how many hostiles stood between them and freedom. If escape looked possible, he was to signal the others, then use the grenade hidden inside his pocket to create a distraction, lobbing it toward the central shaft. The ruckus should cover the Navy crew’s rush toward the entrance. Matt was to offer cover fire with his own rifle. But first, he had to decide if escape through the hall was even possible.

He squinted—then jumped when someone barked right at his shoulder. He had not heard the man’s approach.

Matt turned partially toward the newcomer, a hulking figure in an unzippered parka. Seven feet, if he was an inch. Matt glanced briefly, looking for some insignia of rank. Though the man’s face was rugged and storm-burned, he appeared young. Too young to be of significant rank.

Matt stood a bit straighter as the man continued in Russian, pointing his rifle toward the two bagged bodies as they were sprawled across one of the mess hall tables. His cheeks were red, spittle accumulated at the corners of his lips. He finally finished his tirade, huffing a bit.

Only understanding a few words of Russian, Matt did the one thing everyone did when faced with such a situation. He nodded. “Da,” he mumbled grimly. Along with the word nyet, it was the extent of his Russian vocabulary. In this case, it was a toss-up which to use: da or nyet.

Yes or no.

Clearly the man had delivered an impressive rant, and agreement seemed the best response. Besides, he was not about to disagree with the giant.

“Da,” Matt repeated more emphatically. He might as well commit.

It seemed to work.

A hand as large as a side of beef clapped him on the shoulder, almost driving him to his knees. He caught himself and remained standing as the fellow began to pass.

He had pulled it off.

Then the grenade secreted inside his parka jarred loose and bounced to the floor with a loud clatter. The pin was still in place, so there was no real danger of it exploding.

Still Matt winced as if it had.

The grenade rolled to the toes of the giant.

The man bent to pick it up, his fingers reaching, then pausing. He had to recognize the armament as ancient. Half bent, the fellow glanced up at him, bushy eyebrows pinched as the gears in his brain slowly turned.